An Experiment With Words
I was once given an assignment: Choose a book, and extract words and phrases at random. Write them down, and see what you end up with. This assignment was just for fun, to see what what the result would be. I felt as if the tone of the book was somehow captured in this random piecing together, that the words, even though they were not logical, portrayed the ominous and senseless oppression and cruelty of the novel. In fact, it almost seemed as if the randomness conveyed the horror even more vividly than the book itself did! I intended to repeat this experiment with another book, but never got around to it. The words below are from “Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress”, by Dai Sijie.
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The headman burning my violin exuded suspicion. Peasants peered into the body. Blood spots swarmed, sound sniffed, nostril froze respect. Solemnly, speechless peasant drummed fists in pathetic propaganda. Chilled fire galvanized us; dumbfounded, in sodden shoes. Fingers flooding faithful friends. Limpid, parched earth blurred. Cigarette first, re-education in a profoundly sent fantasy. Guinea pigs were intellectuals.
Sylvester Stallone, brandishing a red headscarf, was a parasitic dentist. Insane, a secret hospital buried their inquisition. Poor sparrows, like beasts of copper, observing giant trees, attacking. The Phoenix, with its ebony beak, seized the bullock’s balls. Tortuous shit was potentially fatal. The audacity depressed us, the silence wavering on stilts. The adaptation was uplifting, gorgeous, making the princess supple. The garments were prudent, but pitiless, slippery and shrouded.
Mischeivous dog trousers reminded the wild and delicate child suspended across an atmosphere mostly illiterate. Fancy her? He was naked. I was still alive, terrified, a foreboding of death. At death’s door, it fell to the ground. The cries of the monkeys took an eternity to learn. The limpid, medicinal ducks’ feet can’t kill the worms. Jade sorceresses frighten evil spirits, and pierce the breast of demons. The magic was not the same, and her mother died.
Was the malaria different? I wept profusely, snuffling. The lonely mountain smoked and a water buffalo aroused sadistic instinct. The sunshine had turned ice cold. Books, making you delirious. Smell the drops of liquid gold, snowflakes transported for a deal.
The belligerent strokes, banded together an exotic fragrance, sensual French novels. France, Napoleon, my father, rang true. Corn bread, the silhouette where my mind’s eye never shivered in short sheepskin; the calm seemed shrill and disagreeable. She somnambulates while I lay asleep, all pretty, stained black with blood.
A gingko tree, she laughed, so wild, the birds took flight from his secret suitcase. The sky was heavenly, pious, a dream. He seemed weary, wreathed in steam, and a fetid smell rose. He had the reputation of being a champion singer and a drunkard. The lice swarmed, sucking his blood.
Glistening with invisible animals, he interrupted, saying nothing. The old miller transformed my wrist and cracked the bone. On my skull, three rungs were missing and filled with liquor, dark dappled leopard, clearly empty. The grindstone turning to improve the acoustics just wrinkled the old miller’s voice.
With deep contentment, with perspiration, I lay sprawled, dead. He seethed with hatred, beef and onions, and pierced my heart.
